


Written in the Stars

by WildandWhirling



Category: Cath Maige Tuired Conga, Irish Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bres is a Good Boy, Did I just quote a Disney Musical in the title?, It'd be such a pity if something happened to his idealism, Let these two be together, M/M, Nothing goes with Irish Mythology like Disney Musicals, Semi-Canon Compliant, Society is a bitch, nothing else changes, pre-Nuada getting maimed, soulmarks are hard in a pre-literate society, tfw you meet a cute boy and then might have to kill him, the answer is yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: When Bres first meets Sreng mac Sengann to negotiate for a peace, he finds not just another champion, but his soulmate. When their efforts fail, after the first day of battle, they make a tryst.





	Written in the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallenidol_453](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenidol_453/gifts).



> Taken from the prompt (FROM TEN. MONTHS. AGO.) : “We’re rivals, not soulmates. We’re supposed to be at each other’s throats.” Better late than never?
> 
> Figures from Irish Mythology have been badly mangled, but let's be real, when have they not been? 
> 
> As I (mildly) bitched about in the tags, at this point in the fragile continuity of Irish Myth, Ogham has not been invented (with one manuscript putting its invention in Bres's reign), so the Irish are kind of left without any type of writing system, ergo anything built around sentences/names would be...unhelpful to both parties involved. So, I went with the idea where the place where soulmates touch each other for the first time bursts into pretty colors.

“We’re rivals,” Sreng hisses, “Not soulmates. We’re supposed to be at each other’s throats.” 

 

“Who’s to say we’re not?” Bres smirks against his neck as he works at hiking his leine up. It’s the quip of a moment, useful to distract from everything in his brain that says that Sreng’s right, that their clans are at war, that his whole life could be thrown away at the whim of his own destiny.

 

Sreng rolls his eyes even as their bond, new and raw but _strong_ through years of lying in wait beneath the surface, sings out between them like the waves of sound that come after a hammer hits an anvil, “Not like that.” 

 

Reluctantly, Bres pulls away, releasing Sreng from the tree that he’d previously had him pinned up against. “Why? Tell me, why should we fight and kill one another? Who does that benefit?” 

 

“The tribe.” Even though he’s only met the man a few times, the answer is exactly what he’d expected. Where he would otherwise be willing to throw King Eochaid to the dogs, the tribe will always be too near Sreng’s heart to ever fully dislodge it. Bres wonders what it’s like, the acceptance, the hope, the trust, even though he knows it’s been no safe thing to be the son of a slain king. Meanwhile, all Bres' life’s been a struggle to get them to so much as look him in the eye. (When they’re settled, though, if he proves himself in the coming days…)

 

“Oh, really? Was it the tribe who sent you out to talk, without any knowing of what you'd be facing? Was it the tribe who proceeded to tear down every suggestion you made when you went back? Was it the _tribe_ who brought us to the point of war?”

 

For all that he’s not understood all the decisions Nuada and the Tuatha dé have made in recent days, he knows that they’d never toss him away like Eochaid has Sreng. They might not always agree with each other, but there’s a firm respect that goes beyond all of that, an understanding of what each man does. 

 

Sreng shakes his head, and Bres can hear the bitterness in his voice, “No.” 

 

He leans forward, his breath ghosting against Sreng’s. “The vow I made to you was not a thing I did lightly, nor is this,” he takes Sreng’s hand in his, so that their soul marks, the brightly hued spot where their fingers first brushed against one another (and that Bres has since had to make every effort to hide, because the Tuatha dé wouldn’t understand, not now, when his place in the tribe is still so distant), meet again. Bres doesn’t know if it’s because of the soul bond or because it’s _him_ that he feels a spark race through his body, straight into his heart from the point of contact. “Something that I take lightly.” 

 

“Nor I,” Sreng says.

 

The night is still and quiet around them, with only the forest creatures hiding in the dark to witness them as Bres lays his head on Sreng’s broad shoulder, the height difference between them accentuated. Beside them, trees reach out their dark branches to grasp at the river as it flows, with moonlight casting the ripples in it a silvery hue. A single salmon leaps out of the waters, splashing as it hits the water again, and a light breeze flows through the grass and the trees. It was hard to believe that, just outside of it, their two peoples were preparing for men to change color and for spears to be reddened with crimson blood again, after one day of slaughter already. 

 

Such a waste.  

 

“What god did we offend in a past life,” Bres asks, “For us to meet now, like this?"

 

Sreng kisses the top of his head, and Bres smiles at the ease of the gesture, at the pull between them, “Gods are fickle, they change their favorites with the wind. Once, our ancestors were happy here, then they were cast onto the sea and put in chains. In light of that, what are our lives? Why shouldn’t we be rivals and still be bonded to one another?”

 

“Rivals on the battlefield, yes,” Bres says, burying his face deeper into Sreng’s shoulder, “But enemies? Never.”

 

“Never,” Sreng agrees. 

 

They stay like that for a time, neither moving to return to their previous position against the tree, instead listening to the distant, faint call of an owl (anything but a raven, at least here and now), no doubt hunting for its next meal. It has no conception of war, Bres thinks, or titles or nobility or craft. It lives by instinct and guile. When it takes a mate, it does so once out of its own inclination, and none judge it by its choice when it does. (He wonders if Bríg has realized, given that he has caught her glancing curiously at the soul mark on his fingertips in the past few days, or if the idea is there, nudging at her mind, or if she is too busy worrying for his sake and that of her father to notice it, and if their usual agreement only applies to their own tribe and not the Fir Bolg.)

 

“We both will have to rise early,” Sreng says, “And we have a long journey back to camp.” 

 

Bres gives a half-hearted smile. “I would almost think that you were trying to be rid of me, given the last time you used that excuse on me.” 

 

Sreng kisses him firmly then, Bres finding himself melting into it. In his life, he’d had his chances to kiss men and women alike, but nothing would ever compare to this, to Sreng’s mouth hard and wanting and filled with everything they hadn’t had the chance to do that night, to the owl’s calling fading in his ear as blood rushes to his head and he feels faint, with the only parts of his body that he’s aware of being his lips and the tips of his fingers. 

 

When it’s done and they’ve parted, he touches his lips, as if trying to hold onto Sreng's warmth. 

 

“Does that answer your question?”

 

He wondered whether he would earn himself an eyeroll if he told him that he could use a refresher and whether it’d be worth it in order to get kissed like _that_ again. 

 

“I think you’ve proven yourself - you’ve proven yourself very well," Bres is able to choke out. 

 

He wonders what it will be like in ten, twenty years from now, if he can make the Tuatha dé’s champion lose his breath like this over something as small as a kiss, before he remembers what awaits the next day, that there might not be any more kisses, either because they’re both dead or because they’ll have watched the other kill those nearest to them, that no matter what, a life between them is impossible regardless of what their soul bond pleads for. (There’s some satisfaction, at least: A child won’t be left behind fatherless because of it. All that’s on the line is their hearts, and he can will himself past that, if need be.)

 

As if reading his mind, Sreng presses two more kisses to the edge of the mouth, and Bres relaxes, resting his forehead against Sreng’s, enjoying the steadiness of the gesture, the closeness. It wasn’t what they’d made the tryst for, but perhaps it was what they needed, at the time. 

 

This time, Bres is the first to part, brushing his fingers along Sreng’s strong jawline. “Goodbye, Sreng Mac Sengann. Perhaps next time.” It’s a nice thought, Bres thinks, being an owl or a  hawk or a fish or a horse with Sreng in some other life. 

 

“Next time,” Sreng says.

 

“See you on the battlefield?” 

 

“I wouldn’t miss it.” 

 

Bres nods, knowing that there wasn’t any other answer. Then, he tears himself away, taking up the weapons that lay discarded off to the side, the shield, the spear, the javelin, making sure that, when they’d been up against the tree, he hadn’t mussed his clothing or hair. Then, he leaves, knowing better than to look back. 

 

Bres…” Bres turns halfway at the sound of Sreng’s voice, his profile one more shadow amongst the trees. “Stay safe.” 

 

Both of them know that it’s an impossible request. Whatever forces there are that govern snow and rain, that break mountains and raise waters, they won’t be bent to something as simple as the will of any two men, even though the Tuatha dé might pretend otherwise. Their fates were fixed long before they stirred in their mothers’ wombs, as with all men. 

 

They know, but that doesn’t stop Bres from nodding anyway, the gesture probably barely visible in the night with only Sreng and the unseen, watchful eyes of the creatures that live in these woods to witness it. “It will be done, on condition that you do the same.”

 

Sreng nods. “Of course.” 

 

They both have two fates, twining around and around each other like twin snakes: One is begun here, another, looming and murky as the fog that the Tuatha dé arrived here on, awaits on the morrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Isn't it great that they both survive, become joint co-rulers of Ireland, and bring peace and prosperity to both their tribes? Right?


End file.
